Anyhow, acting is on my mind. I think a lot of those in the acting profession.
Being an actor is one of the world's most stressful and underappreciated jobs. It's not just reading lines from a page; I have known what acting IS for a long time, but it was not until a college elective that I fully undestood what acting IS NOT.
I memorized the poem "Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe for my Art of Acting class. If you've never read "Alone," fear not for I shall supply it for you. (I hope you'll agree with me that it is an absolutely beautiful poem.) The poem follows:
From childhood's hour, I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source, I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov'd I lov'd alone.
Then - in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun which 'round roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by -
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
My duty was to communicate clearly to the class the meaning of the poem, since that is what our professor instructed, is what acting is all about - the communication of thoughts and of feelings.
I thought, how tough can this be? "Alone" is my favorite poem.
No one could possibly understand the poem better than me, ergo wasn't I the perfect person to act out the poem for my Art of Acting class? After all, everybody says I'm a natural actor. (Of course, the only person who ever said that about me who actually was an actor was my friend, and since she failed two theater course, how credible of a source is she?)
How humbling it is to be soooo wrong. I swaggered on to the stage with all the bravado of a Burt Reynolds-wannabe.
I wanted to do it perfect the first time, but as soon as I looked into the audience composed only of my classmates, the character in my head disintegrated as did my confidence.
The first time around I whipped off the poem in my normal agitated speaking voice, which is 140 words per minute.
"Fromchildhood'shourIhavenotbeenasotherswere" Actually, I don't think I even used vowels; I simply jumped from consonant to consonant like the world's fastest cantor.
Sloooow iiit dooown, Cuuuuurtissss. Uuuuse yooouur noormaaaalll speeeaaking voooiiiccce.
"Whatareyoutalkingabout?That'showfastIactuallytalk."
The second time, I had sufficiently slowed the rate at which the words flowed from my mouth, but I hadn't spoken two or three lines before the instructor interrupted me again and said, "I don't believe you. Who are you? Do it again."
I knew who the character was that I had to be. I knew what I had to be. I even knew why I had to be that character.
I did not know how to be that character. The class ended without me reading the poem the way I think it is meant to be read. The instructor (Todd) gave me kudos for trying, which lifted my spirits a little, but ultimately I felt dejected.
I think I now know how to be that character as I recite the poem.
As I do it, what I have to imagine is that I have been doing some Curtisick thing to do, providing impetus to ask the most frequently asked question of me.
Can you guess what it is? That's right, "Why are you so weird?"
Instead of offering my usual response - "Because I find it more interesting than being a boring putz like yourself" - I leap straight away into Poe's "Alone."
I am distant.
Then as I ponder the isolation forced upon me by myself and others these past 25 tortuous years, I become irate, especially when considering the opulent beauty and pleasure everyone else seems to enjoy.
Acting.
